it’s never fucking disco

I’ve had enough bad news. Bowie. Rickman. Killing off Alice Morgan. Fucking aggravated my migraine and already anxious disposition. Life’s never fair, but go tell someone else. I’m still waiting for things to even out. But the man who shares my flat says that we’ll only be seeing more deaths, now that we’re in our forties, and some closer to home. Having no parents, I grew up as an appendage to a coterie of aunts and uncles, who are in their fifties and sixties. Fuck.

Hauled my fat bottomed girl out of bed, got on my moped, and challenging both migraine and writer’s block, sat at a cafe with my laptop. Black coffee, please, yes, no milk. Triggers a migraine. Something I’ve only just figured out. So no more cappuccinos. 2016 is a fuck up so far, but I’m not going to self-pity. I’m writing. Will commence the rescue of half finished stories trapped in the drafts folder.

I’m in my mid fifties and one of the worst things about getting older is that people keep dying and will keep on dying. The lesson I’ve taken so long to learn is to not waste time in telling those I love that I love them and to waste no time in seeing them either. Unfinished business really sucks.

“people keep dying and will keep on dying”, that’s true. In my case they started dying when I was 15 and just kept on dying for the next two decades. When I reach my mid fifthies, there won’t be many left to die…

Yes, my older brother took me on a holiday to a city we’d never been too when I was 15 and there he killed himself. It’s not the only reason, but it can probably explain why I’m so fucking mental at times…